


you don't get to tell me when to smile

by myhandisempty



Series: kink meme fills [2]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s become increasingly obvious to Tyler that Solomon Crowe has a thing for him. Like, flirts with him, sits way too close to him, probably attempts to sniff his cologne when he's not looking, that sort of thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't get to tell me when to smile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at the kink meme: Tyler thinks that Crowe is always flirting with him and is conVINCED that Crowe has a crush on him. One day he calls him out on it and Crowe laughs it off and denies it, saying that Tyler is egotistical and it's all in his head. This upsets Tyler more than he thought it would, and he becomes obsessed with getting Crowe to admit he likes him.
> 
> Not sure how this happened. I must be losing control of my life.

It’s become increasingly obvious to Tyler that Solomon Crowe has a thing for him. Like, flirts with him, sits way too close to him, probably attempts to sniff his cologne when he's not looking, that sort of thing.

 

And that's all okay, that's something he's used to handling. When you have a face like his and the charisma and confidence to match, Tyler's found that you spend a lot of time letting people down easy or just plain beating them off with sticks. The attention is nice, and all, but he doesn't want to give anyone the wrong impression or any sort of false hope.

 

How anyone who looks like Crowe, greasy, untamed black hair and a permanent snarl on his face, could hold onto any hope whatsoever is a mystery, but still. Talking him down is the magnanimous thing to do.

 

Tyler slides into the seat next to him in the otherwise empty rec room, where he’s playing around on his phone. Probably doesn’t even know how to work the camera, he thinks, though there’s little reason for him to, unless it’s to snap inconspicuous photos of Tyler. He’s probably the worst hacker Tyler’s ever met. Crowe side-eyes him, but is apparently too nervous to speak when Tyler’s sitting so near him.

 

Oh, yeah, he’s got it bad.

 

“I have to talk to you about something,” Tyler informs him, watching as Crowe’s focus shifts completely from the phone to his face. “And you have to let me get it all out, no response, and then let me walk away and we can pretend this never happened. Complete silence, got it?”

 

“Um, okay?” Crowe says, looking confused, so Tyler makes sure to speak a bit slower.

 

“Look, I know you must rarely bathe, or do anything more than climb out of whatever dark, dank cavern or coffin or wherever it is you spend your free time, but I can’t imagine that impedes your ability to hear all that much.” Crowe is still scowling, his default expression, but for whatever reason Tyler imagines it looks vaguely amused. He certainly hopes he didn’t just compliment Crowe in his native language or anything. “Listening ears, now,” he admonishes, frowning. This started off simply enough, but now he’s concerned about the creases forming on his face. He’ll have to smooth them all out tonight during his in depth skin routine. He will be damned before he allows Solomon Crowe to cause him premature wrinkles.

 

Fortunately, he stays silent, and Tyler is able to continue. “I’ve noticed your little affections—”

 

“My what?” Crowe actually has the audacity to interrupt him. He really isn’t grasping the concept of silence, which is ridiculous because he normally does nothing but sit in a corner glaring at people. And memorize Tyler’s face. Which is also a subset of the glaring thing.

 

Tyler sighs, makes a mental note to drink some herbal tea, later. A nice chamomile, to relax away this headache that’s forming. The things he puts himself through to maintain the delicate balance of peace around here. “Your crush, the way you flirt with me and stare at me. I know, I know, it’s a great view, and it’s flattering, really, even coming from a mouth-breather such as yourself, but the feelings are definitely not mutual. You just need to be aware of that.”

 

He’s about to wrap up the short speech with a gentle tap to the shoulder, not too much contact but enough to be appropriately commiserating, when Crowe starts making a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter. A glance at his face confirms it. No one has ever reacted quite this way to being turned down by him before.

 

“Are you a masochist?” Tyler asks, trying really hard to keep that furrow between his eyebrows from coming out of hiding. He’s honestly confused, now, and he doesn’t care for it. He’s heard people like that actually do exist, the kind that actually enjoy pain as opposed to the opulence that they could be basking in. “Do you get off on rejection? If so, please tell me now, so that I can feel free to never, ever mention this again.” Not like he would, anyway.

 

Crowe is smiling, now, which is an expression Tyler doesn’t remember seeing from him before. It’s a little frightening, like he has too many teeth for his mouth. Makes him seem very shark like. Tyler wonders if he should recommend a cosmetic surgeon, for that. In any case, he’ll have to keep a closer eye on him, from here on out. If only his face were a bit more attractive.

 

“Are you always like this?” Crowe asks, waving a hand, apparently in an attempt to encompass all of Tyler’s Tyler-ness. It’s a lot of essence to reduce to a simple motion like that—Tyler resents the implication. “I know around here you’re very _you_ , but when you go home at night, by yourself, are you still convinced your shit smells like roses?”

 

It’s so crass that Tyler’s a bit taken aback. Their previous interactions haven’t been nearly so vulgar. “Excuse me?” he stutters out, at a loss. He will not let someone like Crowe get in the final word, though.

 

“I don’t like you,” Crowe says, laughing again, and this time it’s inarguably _at_ Tyler. He’s furious. He’s going to give Crowe a piece of his mind, when he manages to find his voice again through blind _rage_. “I’m willing to bet that no one around here does. It’s all in your head.” He reaches out and pokes at Tyler’s head with a grubby little finger, before Tyler slaps his hand away. Crowe cackles again. “Just like your fame and glory and supposed beauty. It’s all going to go away someday, and maybe then you’ll realize it was never there to begin with.”

 

That sharp-toothed grin is back again as he makes a hasty departure, leaving Tyler fuming in his seat. He takes a few deep breaths, allows himself to calm down. What this is obviously a case of, he realizes, is that Crowe is in very deep denial. Probably so hurt, in fact, that he had to lash out to protect his feelings.

 

Tyler can’t just let it go, though. He deserves an apology, proper closure to this strange little scene. He just wants Crowe to admit that he was right, that he likes Tyler, and then he can move on and wash his hands of it.

 

He just needs a way to get him to cave. Yeah, then Tyler will be done with him.

 

\---

 

Turns out it’s not that easy. As simple as it was to read Crowe, he’s proven to be a much tougher nut to crack.

 

Tyler’s not much of a scientist, but he’s found himself having to formulate a series of experiments over the last week or so. For instance, Tyler’s tried to flirt with him, just a little, compliment that garish leather jacket and the _fascinating_ (ie: not)way he wears all black on black on black, which resulted in nothing more than confusion fading into a somewhat knowing look before Tyler retreated. His stripping in the locker room was slightly more successful, the slow and methodical removal of his street clothes coupled with the smoldering looks he knows how to sell. Crowe’s eyes had been on him, and he certainly hadn’t been _laughing_ , at least, but there were other eyes as well and it wasn’t the right time to approach him. But Crowe didn’t come to him, after, so it turns out to be a failure, as well.

 

Tyler turns to the internet for help, briefly, and reads things like “listen to him and avoid judgement” and “be authentic and humble”. He immediately closes out of every page he’d opened on his phone and considers burning it and getting a new one to replace it altogether, because he can delete the history from the browser but he can never erase the memory that he sullied the device with that search.

 

“You’re fucking trying to seduce me, now, you realize that,” Crowe sits down across from him at lunch one day, that too wide grin that he apparently reserves just for Tyler in place. It’s scarier than his usual scowl, makes him look a little manic, which is something he usually reserves for the ring. It’s also not remotely nice on his face, which is no different than any of the other expressions he makes, but this one is especially unfortunate looking.

 

“You shouldn’t smile like that,” he says, ignoring the comment. He’s picking at a salad, tiny cup of dressing on the side, while Crowe’s getting ready to dig into a rather gigantic hamburger. It’s dripping with ketchup and relish and pickles and looks absolutely repugnant. “It’ll wrinkle your face and your lips will stay permanently curled in disgust.” Why is he bothering, really? Crowe is never going to be pretty, not even half as much as he is.

 

Crowe pauses with the burger halfway to his mouth. “Do you even like anything?” he asks, looking genuinely curious. It’s the most engaged Tyler ever remembers him seeming. “I know, you have all this money and fur and homes and you love to look at yourself,” Tyler scoffs at that, of course he does, who doesn’t love to look at him, “but do you actually, like, fucking enjoy anything? Does anything even get to you?”

 

He’s trying to make a point that Tyler doesn’t like the sound of. He reaches over and snags the hamburger from out of his hands, takes a huge bite of it. There are onions, Tyler _hates_ onions, the way their pungent flavor invades otherwise delicious food and ruins it, but he chews and swallows them down anyway, dropping the food back onto Crowe’s plate. “I enjoy kicking the living daylights out of sad little men like you,” he snaps, sitting back in his chair. Crowe’s gaping at him, a little, before he manages to close his mouth and the corner of it turns up ever so slightly. There’s a second, a split second, where the shock of seeing a different look on his face must short circuit something in Tyler’s brain, because he finds himself thinking it’s not altogether an ugly smile.

 

“In fact, I think I’ll go get ready to do just that,” he stands up, throwing his salad into the trash can as he storms away. Tyler immediately regrets it, but, it’s in the garbage now. He’ll have to get a new one. And he’s probably set himself back to the beginning in his task. Great. Just great.

 

This is so stupid, the way he’s lowering himself to try and prove a point. But, well, the alternative, the chance that Crowe wasn’t lying to begin with, that’s completely unacceptable. It makes no sense. Tyler is more than anyone else he’s ever seen, here, and the thought that that could somehow not be enough for someone, for someone like _Solomon Crowe_ , it’s just laughable. Right? Tyler is more than someone like him should hope for. _Right_?

 

Tyler has never wanted to kick someone’s face in more. Hopefully he’ll get to boot that weird, soft grin off Crowe’s face. No one mocks Tyler Breeze, especially not some Grade A Uggo that should be looking up to him. On the plus side, rearranging his face could only make it better, Tyler’s sure of that.

 

\---

 

Tyler takes a week off, regroups a little, spends time indulging in bubble baths and the comfy sweats that no one else’s eyes will ever be allowed to touch and a lot of other things that don’t constantly try to read too much into what he’s doing and would never attempt to embarrass him.

 

When he returns, rejuvenated, it’s with a fresh perspective and some new ideas. He makes sure to visit the weight room at the same time as Crowe, just so he knows when the other man is getting ready to hit the cafeteria. That’s his schedule, Tyler’s noted—workout, shower, food, spar. And, today, Tyler’s got something of a surprise for him.

 

After his own shower, he dries his hair and combs it back into his customary ponytail, foregoing the hairspray to keep it a little softer. Tyler had ducked into the locker room a bit early, hopeful that Crowe would be finished a little before he was. After he rubs moisturizer into his face, Tyler throws on his hooded vest, zips it up, and heads toward the smell of the food.

 

He slides into the seat across from Crowe with the fish that he brought, playing it cool and not saying a word. He just starts eating, which he knows confuses the other man, and that’s the name of the game, this time. Keep Crowe on his toes, instead of him getting one over on Tyler.

 

“You need something, Breeze?” Crowe asks him, eying him warily, when, really shouldn’t it be the other way around?

 

“No, not at all. I’m just eating, like every other day,” he responds, concentrating on his meal. He shoots a quick smile at Crowe, who raises an eyebrow. Tyler makes a mental note to never, ever make that exact expression, even if it would look ten times better on him.

 

They go back to eating in silence, for awhile, before Tyler speaks up. “Actually, I was thinking, I’d really like to spend some time in the ring in a little bit. You can go against me.” He phrases it where it might sound like he’s asking, though he’s not. If Crowe isn’t moved by everything else he’s done, maybe he’ll be impressed with Tyler’s in-ring skills.

 

Crowe frowns again, because he probably knows exactly what Tyler’s thinking, but Tyler just smiles over as sweetly as possible and works on his food. “Fine,” Crowe says, not even that hesitantly, because Tyler is winning, here. He was upset at first, thought he’d been defeated, but this is an iron man match, if anything. He’s just down a few falls—there’s still plenty of time to catch up.

 

“Good,” Tyler says, finishing the fish and rice, and sashaying away. He knows Crowe’s eyes are on them, he can _feel_ them, and he laughs a little when he’s out of sight.

 

It’s after Crowe gets to the ring area that he looks a little nervous. Or more edgy, like he’s in need of a fix. It’s the general air that always follows him, outside of the cafeteria and weight room. Tyler rolls his eyes, smooths his hair back out of habit. “Let’s go, then,” he starts, rolls up between the ropes. Crowe follows him, and after staring each other down for a moment or two, they go for a lockup.

 

Crowe, unexpectedly, tosses him around more easily than Tyler’s used to being handled, even by some of the bigger guys around here, but Tyler is better with his legs, landing kicks all over his body. He’s about to go for another, but just then, Crowe tackles him, landing on top of Tyler with such force that his abs probably contract into the rest of him and won’t be visible for days. He’s breathlessly swearing that Crowe is going to pay for abdominal recovery surgery, if that’s even a thing, when he hears Crowe counting quietly, “1, 2, 3,” and then their faux match is over, Tyler losing again, somehow.

 

When he blinks up, Crowe is hovering over him, this weird look on his face that Tyler doesn’t know what to call. “Looks like I’m in your head real good,” he grins then, ruffles Tyler’s hair out of its ponytail and rolls back out of the ring.

 

Tyler just lies there for a long second or two before he calls out, “I’m going to kill you, I swear to God,” but Crowe’s answering cackle is already fading into the distant hallway.

  
  
  
\---

 

“You’re a little fiery when you don’t get your way, aren’t you?”

 

Crowe keeps searching him out at the most inopportune times. Honestly, he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be proving a point when Crowe is always there when Tyler _doesn’t want him to be_ , waiting to undermine everything he does. This time, he’s chased after Tyler when he stormed off after losing the battle royale for the number one contendership, an effort he was only distracted during because of Crowe and his horrendous jacket and horrible hair and terrible overall face constantly thwarting his every effort to be victorious outside the ring, and he can’t pick up a win inside it for the life of him, either.

 

“I mean, it’s nice to see that vindictiveness rear it’s ugly head. You know, you’re not as pristine as you think you are.”

 

“Do you _mind_?” Tyler shouts. He needs space, he needs air, he needs to have something in his life right now that doesn’t revolve around Solomon Crowe. He can’t win, no matter where he is, no matter what he does, losses keep piling up, and he’s better than this.

 

“I’m better than this,” he mumbles to himself, because he is. He’s better than constantly getting pinned and submitted and flipped over the top rope, he’s better than missing chance after chance at the number one contendership, especially after being here for years at this point, and he’s certainly better than trying to prove the existence of a stupid crush that means nothing. Tyler starts tearing gear off, shoving it in his duffel, frustrated and shaking. A lot ends up missing the opening of the bag when he throws it, littering the floor. He sinks down onto the bench underneath him, rests his head in his hands, breathing heavily in and out through the falling curtain of his hair.

 

Tyler doesn’t even realize Crowe is still there until his feet come into view, picking up the scattered items and dropping them into the bag. He must seem completely pathetic if Crowe is willing to do him a favor. “Don’t,” he tries to be biting, “don’t touch that, you don’t even like me, quit trying to help.”

 

There’s a snort right before the last errant piece is snatched up and put away, and then Crowe is dropping down into Tyler’s line of sight, staring at him with a really calm face, minus the large buggy eyes, which are more or less normal for him. That he can look like that, while Tyler is frustrated and raging and just wants to destroy something, is sickening.

 

“It’s alright not to be perfect, you know. You’re a lot prettier like this, anyway,” he says, reaching out and settling a large hand right above Tyler’s knee. Tyler follows the movement, watches the fingers squeeze briefly around his leg. Wonders if he slammed his head too hard in the ring, that he’s even considering going along with this. Wonders if this isn’t a hallucination altogether. “All angry and violent. You deserve better, then show them. Take it.”

 

Their faces are really close together, a lot closer than Tyler has ever really wanted to be to Crowe, but he’s looking at him like Tyler isn’t a joke, like he means every word he said, and Tyler is going to have to scrub himself raw later but he thinks, yes, he deserves what he wants, and right now what he really wants is to kiss Solomon Crowe. So he does.

 

It’s a lot nicer than he was expecting, to be honest, the way Crowe surges into it against him but softens almost immediately, so they’re not just fighting with their mouths in a new way. It lasts longer, too, than Tyler thought it would—he only manages to force himself away by shoving against Crowe’s shoulder, pushing them both back.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, a little shaken and a lot out of breath. “What am _I_ doing?” He’s not sure what he did that for, why he wants to at all, why he keeps doing things like this when it’s Crowe—he’s Tyler Breeze and this is not how things are supposed to be. “I really think I hate you, you know,” he frowns at the face still in front of him. He’s been doing that too much, recently—yet another thing he can blame on Crowe.

  
“It’s okay,” Crowe says, shrugging, the shark grin back but softer, threading a hand into Tyler’s hair and Tyler _lets him_ , “I guess I kind of like you, too.”


End file.
